fred sits alone at his desk in the dark

there's an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall

he has packed all his things

and he's put them in boxes

things that remind him that life has been good

twenty five years he's worked at the paper

a man's here to take him downstairs

and i'm sorry mr jones, it's time



there was no party and there were no songs

cause today's just a day like the day that he started

and no one is left here that knows his first name

yeah, and life barrels on like a runaway train

where the passengers change

they don't change anything

you get off

someone else can get on

and i'm sorry mr jones, it's time



the streetlight it shines through the haze

casting lines on the floor

and lines on his face

he reflects on the day...



fred gets his paints out and goes to the basement

projecting some slides onto a plain white canvas

and traces it

fills in the spaces

he turns off the slides

and it doesn't look right

yeah, and all of these bastards have taken his place

he's forgotten but not yet gone

and i'm sorry mr jones

and i'm sorry mr jones

and i'm sorry mr jones, it's time